


Devil in the Details

by MermaidMarie



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Lucifer AU, M/M, Slow Burn, more like antagonists to lovers, not-quite-enemies to lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-06
Updated: 2020-01-18
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:48:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21689353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MermaidMarie/pseuds/MermaidMarie
Summary: Lucifer AU.In which Eliot Waugh, Lord of Hell, is living in LA running a bar and finds himself working alongside Detective Quentin Coldwater.
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 18
Kudos: 76





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to acollectionofdaydreams for letting me use her delightful idea, and thank you to all my friends who got v into it in the group chat!!  
> In other news: I am having a Great time.

Eliot Waugh was a man who went by many names. Or, rather, he was _known_ by many names. There were whispered stories about him everywhere. Rumors, largely, though much of it was true.

Eliot didn’t mind the mystique. He rather enjoyed it. He could lean back in his velvet throne in his loft above the LA club he owned and let them all talk. Being a topic of conversation was something of a delight, really. Eliot’s reputation was well-crafted, for the most part.

There were, of course, areas of his reputation he didn’t care for. This, he mostly attributed to his father’s influence. His father, regrettably, did have quite a bit of sway over the general population. It was an unfortunate truth of Eliot’s life.

His father, naturally, being God.

Eliot did not have a particularly positive relationship with the man. Given, of course, that he’d been cast out for his lack of ability to follow his dear father’s wishes to the letter. Eliot, at least, had embraced what he could of the fallen angel tragedy.

He had no interest in mending his familial connections. Whatever black marks there might be on his reputation were not worth the blow to his pride that seeking forgiveness would be.

Forgiveness was, after all, wholly overrated.

Eliot found that he preferred retribution. Everyone getting what they deserved.

Making sure everyone got what they deserved was something of Eliot’s specialty. He found that that was what people misunderstood about the Devil—if you were in Hell, you’d earned your place there. Eliot never hurt anyone who hadn’t hurt someone else first.

It was important to live by your principles.

Or, at least, such was Eliot’s life as the Lord of Hell.

He’d been on vacation from that job for some time now.

\---

The Cottage was a decidedly niche bar. Certainly popular—there always was quite the line out the door. It was that old Hollywood glamour that drew most of the crowd.

But Eliot prided himself on how it was not your typical LA club. The Cottage has a very carefully crafted aesthetic—it had the feel of a genuine speakeasy, with elegant cocktails and music you could hear yourself over. He often got comments on how authentic the vintage décor looked.

He liked to explain how various pieces were gifts from the likes of Oscar Wilde, Lord Byron, and Audrey Hepburn. Poetic license that Eliot might have taken in the stories aside, it seemed that people were skeptical of the truth at the core of it.

Humans. Curious what they were and were not willing to believe or accept.

In any case, the Cottage was something of a secret novelty of Eliot’s chosen area of Hollywood. Tourists never happened upon it—by design, of course. Eliot was frankly horrified by the mere idea of ending up on a tacky Must-See list for people exploring the LA area for the first time. He preferred curating and collecting repeat customers—people who would spend time in his bar, almost become the decoration themselves.

Eliot, for one, always made sure to match the place like he was a part of the aesthetic when he was spending nights there.

It was a night Eliot had decided to play bartender. He didn’t always—it certainly wasn’t his _job._

But he couldn’t deny that he enjoyed tossing the bottles carelessly and catching them with ease, pouring the drinks as he shot the starry-eyed customers some smiles, adding the garnish with a flourish. And tonight was one such night.

\---

A man sitting at the corner of the bar piqued Eliot’s interest. He didn’t seem to be trying to get Eliot’s attention to order a drink. His eyes kept fluttering around the room like he was looking for someone. Like he was waiting for something to happen.

Eliot breezed over to him, brushing off a few customers trying to catch his eye. Let the other bartenders handle them.

“Are you planning on ordering anything or do you just like the view?” Eliot asked, tapping his fingers lightly against the bar.

The man turned sharply, seeming like he’d been lost in thought. “Oh. Sorry. I haven’t gotten a chance to look at a menu.”

Eliot offered a smile. “No need—let me make you our cocktail of the night. Trust me, you’ll love it.”

“Oh, um—sure, yeah, okay.” The guy turned fully towards him. Whatever he’d been looking for, he didn’t seem to have found it.

Eliot put a little extra effort into the drink, using the cocktail shaker with one hand as he twirled the martini glass in the other, perhaps unnecessarily. He wasn’t sure how much this man appreciated the performance, but he didn’t suppose it mattered all that much.

“There you are,” Eliot said, pushing the drink towards the man on a coaster.

“Thanks,” he replied with a slight smile.

He looked a little shy. Maybe even a little afraid. It was—well, it was the kind of flirtation that Eliot had fun with.

He leaned forward smiling. “So are you waiting for someone?”

The man stopped before he could take a drink. “What?”

Eliot gestured. “You were looking around the room. Have you got a date coming?”

The man let out a small chuckle. “Uh, no. Nope.”

“Hm. Tragic, a handsome man like you out alone tonight?” Eliot let his gaze linger on the man obviously. When his eyes flicked back up to the man’s face, the blush he’d been waiting for had materialized. Eliot smiled kindly. “What an absolute shame.”

He coughed, seemingly trying to hide behind his drink as he took a long sip. “This is, um, it’s really good.”

“Why, thank you. It’s my own creation.” Eliot paused for a moment, letting the break in conversation go on just long enough for the man to glance up nervously. Eliot smiled. “What _are_ you looking for, then?”

“Sorry?”

“Oh, come on. Everyone is out here because they _want_ something.”

Eliot took a moment to enjoy the way the man seemed to be entranced.

“And what—” Eliot said, feeling a familiar spark in his fingertips at the use of his powers “—do _you_ want?”

The man blinked rapidly, looking utterly struck. “Wh-what?”

“Oh, you know, deepest desires, that sort of thing,” Eliot leaned forward, offering a conspiratorial grin and cocking his head to the side a little. “Got any you want to share?”

“I just—I’m looking for the real thing, you know? I just want to find someone I can really talk to,” the man blurted out, wide-eyed. “Someone I could really see myself with, who’d really be there. Someone I could make tea for every morning.”

_Oh._

Just like that, the spell was broken. The fun had evaporated.

Eliot stifled a sigh, straightening up again. “Hm. Afraid I can’t help you there,” he replied in an even tone. “All the best, though.”

It was always at least _mildly_ disappointing when the deepest secrets Eliot could get out of someone were sweet and wholesome. It was far more fun to get the people who had bizarre and surprising wants. Eliot, for one, did not have much of an interest in the domestic daydreams of strangers.

Pity. It could’ve been a fun night. The guy was pretty cute. Certainly cute enough to call again for round two if all went well.

It was endearing enough that he was out at a bar in LA looking for a genuine connection, but Eliot wasn’t in the mood to navigate that flavor of baggage. Sweet boys were their own special kind of high maintenance and Eliot simply wasn’t interested in the ordeal.

He moved down the bar to the next customer, though he did find himself glancing back at the man.

He still looked mildly shaken from having revealed his sweet daydreams to a stranger. He sipped his drink, examining the coaster like he felt too uncomfortable to look up again.

Eliot felt a stab of affection for the guy. He did hope that, against all the poor odds of the LA bar scene, the guy could find his person. Someone to make tea for every morning.

It really was such a nice desire to hold so close to one’s heart.

“El,” a woman’s voice said sharply. “If you’re going to work, you might as well _work.”_

Margo was glaring at him, a hand anchored to her hip.

“Only when it’s fun, darling,” Eliot replied breezily.

“I didn’t leave Hell for this,” Margo muttered to him before turning to the woman who was leaning over the bar. “Can I get you something?”

The woman drew back from the bar at Margo’s sharp tone. “Um…”

“A _drink_ is usually what people want here,” Margo added in a dry, unimpressed tone.

“Play nice, Bambi,” Eliot said. He offered the girl a smile, just a hint of amused pity in his eyes. It was always a little bit fun to see the humans unsure of how to handle the intimidating energy Margo gave off.

The girl looked a little relieved. “A rum and coke?” she said, directing her order to Eliot.

Eliot winked at her. “Coming right up.”

“High King of Hell, taking drink orders,” Margo muttered, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Lighten up, Margo,” Eliot said. He prepared the drink quickly, handing it to the girl. She took it gratefully and scurried away with one last nervous glance to Margo.

“You didn’t even ask for payment,” Margo said.

“Oh, they all pay in one way or another,” Eliot replied with a careless wave. “I don’t stress the details.”

\---

It was hours later, the crowd at the bar thinning considerably. The vibe had turned a little melancholy, the way it sometimes does at the end of the night, with people only sticking around because they don’t want to admit it’s time to face tomorrow.

Eliot was feeling a pleasant kind of melancholy. Like a nostalgic ache. It was all very poetic—it fit the aesthetic of the bar quite nicely. He felt at ease with the strange quality of the mood in the air. It was just the right kind of tragic.

Feeling like watching smoke rise toward the stars, Eliot slipped outside to have a cigarette.

Whatever magic was keeping the mood just right fell apart when he went out the side door into the alley.

The cigarette was already between his teeth when he saw it—

A dark shape on the ground.

Eliot had seen his fair share of death, though less so on this side of it. He was the one welcoming the rotten souls into a prison of their own making. By the time the dead reached him, their bodies were cold and stiff.

It was a man—the shape sprawled out across the concrete.

Eliot approached slowly.

“This is not the _best_ place to pass out, I’m afraid,” he called out, though he already had the lingering sense that the words were wasted.

As he got closer, he clenched his jaw, the cigarette filter pinching in his mouth.

“Oh. It’s you.”

The man was dead, frozen with his hands still seemingly trying to clutch at his blood-stained shirt.

Eliot knew him.

Or—

Not knew. Recognized. He was the man at the bar, the one Eliot had flirted with earlier that night.

\---

“It’s my case, Alice,” Quentin said, his voice getting more strained.

“It’s open and shut,” Alice replied. “It’s just a mugging gone wrong. Don’t overthink it.”

Quentin pressed his lips together. Alice had a way of making him feel smaller. She’s been a detective longer than him and she was used to being the lead. He wanted to prove that she wasn’t the only one doing any work.

So maybe it had been bothering him that people seemed to view their partnership as the brilliant Alice Quinn solving cases in her sleep as her stuttering ex followed in her stride.

He didn’t mean to be competitive. He really didn’t. He was usually happy for her.

It had just been a little more strained as of late.

“Q, I can _see_ you overthinking it,” Alice said.

It wasn’t one-sided. Quentin wasn’t the only one who was feeling the tension. Alice was using her disapproving tone, the kind that made Quentin feel like she was one eyeroll away from calling him useless or stupid.

“Look, if there’s more to it than that—” Quentin half-mumbled.

“There _isn’t.”_

Quentin shot Alice a look.

“Okay, but if there _is—”_

Alice crossed her arms. “Trust me when I tell you that the captain is not going to be impressed by you wasting your time investigating a mugging. We could hand this off to anyone.”

And there is was. The source of _Quentin’s_ current frustration. Alice always had to believe people were working an angle. Like everyone always had an ulterior motive. Like Quentin’s only interest here was impressing their boss.

“I just think this guy deserves to have his death given the same attention as anyone else,” Quentin replied pointedly. He looked at Alice, meeting her eyes with a hint of challenge. “Don’t you?”

Alice huffed. “Yeah, real nice, Q. I love when you imply that you’re the only one who _cares.”_

“I don’t want to fight with you.”

She just barely smiled. “Yeah, you do.” She flicked her hair back a little, letting out a short sigh and looking back down at the man. “Fine. Whatever. It’s your case.”

She turned and walked away briskly.

It wasn’t always like this between them. Some days were better than others.

Some days were, well, worse.

Quentin wouldn’t say their breakup was _messy._ Just complicated. In all actuality, Quentin wasn’t sure that dating someone he worked with was the best move. He’d have to make a rule about that one.

_Sure, blame the job, blame the stress._

Quentin sighed.

He did love Alice. He just wasn’t sure how he was supposed to act around her. He’d never been sure.

In any case, the tension was frustrating him. It added a level of anxiety to the job. He was always afraid of failing around Alice—he always felt like she expected him to—but it was worse when they’d already been arguing.

It was her being judgmental and impatient, him being insecure and defensive. It was all the reasons they hadn’t worked very well as a couple.

Quentin really needed this case to go smoothly. He was wound tight with the fear of failure.

\---

By the time the police had arrived, Eliot had stopped pacing and was sitting perched up on a table, a dark pit of anger and guilt in his stomach.

“The police response times in this city are abysmal,” he complained to Margo.

She just shrugged. “Los Angeles.”

She seemed fairly ambivalent about the whole thing. Frankly, a little impatient with Eliot’s restlessness.

“Tell you what,” she said, patting his leg. “I’m getting out of here while the cops are roaming. I’ll pick up some of the good whiskey while I’m out.”

She didn’t wait for him to answer before grabbing her leather jacket off the table next to him and marching off.

Eliot tapped his fingers against the table.

The waiting was really quite insufferable.

It was a few more minutes before a detective walked over to him, notepad in hand.

“So you’re the owner?” he asked.

Eliot let out an airy sigh, sliding off the table.

“Detective—” He looked for a nametag. There wasn’t one.

“Coldwater,” the man replied stiffly. “Quentin.”

Eliot raised an eyebrow. “Detective _Coldwater,_ then. I’m Eliot.”

The detective stared at him for a moment. “I know,” he replied dryly.

Eliot gave the man a once-over. He was pretty cute, in a nerdy type way. He seemed high strung, the way his hand was clutching his notebook.

Then again, this wasn’t quite the time for that.

“You’re late,” Eliot said, his tone clipped.

The detective’s jaw clenched.

“So. Eliot Waugh, right?”

“If you _know,_ why are you asking?”

“Just confirming.”

Eliot studied the man’s face. “You look familiar. Have we met before?”

The detective’s mouth twitched. “Um. Nope.”

“Hm. Really? You’ve never wandered in here on a night off or… something?” Eliot let himself linger a little on the _something._

Quentin coughed, looking away. “No. Nope. Never, um, never been here before.” He pushed his hair back, like a nervous tic. Eliot tried not to find it endearing. “Anyway, I’m the one asking the questions.”

Eliot sighed and gestured. “Ask away.”

The detective met his eyes, a strange sort of determination behind it. “Did you know him?”

Eliot frowned. “No, not really.” Not quite relevant, he thought.

“So he was just another customer?”

Eliot narrowed his eyes. “ _Just_ is hardly the way I’d put it.” People could be so dense.

He hadn’t been just another customer. He was a kind man who deserve to find something good in life. He deserved better than _this,_ and that was what actually mattered. He hadn’t done anything to deserve such a fate.

“But you just met him tonight?” the detective persisted.

Eliot scoffed. “What does that _matter?”_ he replied.

Detective Coldwater furrowed his brow, blinking. He looked confused.

He was cute when he was confused.

Eliot reminded himself that he was angry.

“I’m just trying to establish your connection to the victim,” the detective replied. His tone had softened considerably.

Eliot cleared his throat, glancing away quickly. He wasn’t sure what to do with Quentin’s gentle voice.

“Well, I suppose there wasn’t much of one,” he replied. He tried to manufacture the carelessness that tended to be coated onto his voice, but it didn’t quite fit right.

He hazarded a glance back at Coldwater. The man was narrowing his eyes at Eliot, studying his face. Like he could see right through him.

“I didn’t even know his name,” Eliot added, frowning a little.

That was the thing, wasn’t it? He hadn’t even asked the man’s name. He’d just asked for the secrets he held dear and then he’d calculated the effort it would take to hook up with him and found the man coming up short. It was all so impersonal. A little cold.

Eliot was used to impersonal and cold, but he _remembered_ what this man had said, about just wanting someone he could make tea for in the morning. It was all so innocent. He’d seemed so _innocent_. No darkness lurking beneath the surface. Only a longing for connection in a dishonest world.

That was familiar.

“David,” Coldwater said suddenly.

Eliot met his eyes again. “Pardon?”

The detective offered half of a smile. “His name. It was David.” He shrugged a little. “I thought you might want to know.”

A little startled, Eliot opened his mouth to reply, but nothing came out.

“David Greyson. Specifically.”

“Oh.”

“It looks like it was just a mugging,” the detective continued, like he was offering something. “You know, wrong place, wrong time. There’s nothing, um, nothing anyone could’ve done. For what it’s worth, I don’t think the mugger meant to kill him.”

Eliot felt a spike of frustration. “So, what? That’s it, then?”

The detective blinked. “No, that’s not—”

“Seems a little overly simplistic, if you ask me. Wrapped up so neatly.”

“That wasn’t what I was saying.”

Eliot let out a little huff of laughter. “So tell me something. How is your department planning on handling this? If it’s just some _mugging_. Are you going to find the person responsible? Are you going to punish them?”

The detective seemed to tense. “We’ll do what we can,” he said, his voice tight and suddenly formal.

“How comforting. Be honest—is this a priority for you? Because it is for me.” Eliot couldn’t quite explain the heat in his chest at this, the amount of investment he had. He didn’t really want to examine where it came from. What mattered was this: he _needed_ whoever did this to be punished.

“Q,” a woman’s voice called.

The detective shut his notebook. “ _I’ll_ do everything I can,” he amended to Eliot, his voice lowered. He looked like he might say something else, but he turned and walked away.

Eliot felt—

Well. He wasn’t sure.

Perhaps like he might need to take matters into his own hands.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AUs are fun in that you don't have to acknowledge or remember canon

When Margo came waltzing back in, Eliot was sitting at the piano rather dramatically, looking up at the ceiling. His fingers explored the keys aimlessly.

“Margo,” Eliot said without looking over at her. “We’re going to have to figure out who killed that man ourselves.”

He heard the clicking of her heels slow. He could practically see the skepticism on her face.

“You’re fucking with me, right?”

“The police just think it’s a mugging. They’re not going to give this any attention.”

“So?”

“What do you mean, so? You’re always on my case about how I need to be doing more. Well, here I am, being the Devil. Whoever killed that man needs to be punished. I intend to see to it that that happens.” He got to his feet, straightening up his vest and jacket. He turned to her. Let the staring contest begin.

Margo was looking at him with an unimpressed gaze, an eyebrow raised. She put a hand on her hip.

“This isn’t exactly what I had in mind,” she said, her tone flat.

Eliot shrugged. “Well, this is where we’re starting. Now. How do you solve a murder?”

“How the hell should I know?” Margo replied. “We usually already know what they’ve done by the time they make it to us.”

Eliot crossed his arms with a small huff. Well, she _did_ have a point, but he hardly wanted to admit that. Punishing people in hell had its perks—mostly that you already had their entire life laid out for you, so you’d never have to do any guesswork about who deserved what.

Being alive was slightly more complicated. It had the added issue of redemption, as well as all the uncertainties of how to find people.

Well. At least people had a hard time lying to Eliot. He could find out what he needed to.

“We have a name,” Eliot said. “David Greyson. It’s what the detective told me.”

Margo perked up a little. “That’s who we need to punish?”

Eliot shot her an exasperated look. “ _No._ That was the victim; we need to find who killed him.”

Margo rolled her eyes, leaning back against the bar.

“Can we at least drink some whiskey first?”

Eliot waved a noncommittal hand, but he walked over.

“Fine, fine,” he said. “Pour them.”

Margo pulled the glasses down. “You could just as easily pour them yourself.”

“Oh, Bambi, but you do it so well,” Eliot replied with a grin.

Margo just rolled her eyes at him again.

As she began to pour, the air around them changed.

Eliot watched as the whiskey appeared to slow in midair. He sighed heavily.

“Got company,” Margo said, jutting her chin towards the door.

“He couldn’t have shown up when you were done pouring?” Eliot muttered. He turned sharply, making his way across the room with long strides.

“El,” his brother greeted, a humorless expression on his face.

Eliot flashed a smile. “Penny, always a pleasure. Can I interest you in a drink? It may take a while to get one in the glass, unfortunately.”

“Cut the crap,” Penny replied, crossing his arms. “You know why I’m here.”

“Oh, the same reason you always are, I imagine,” Eliot said dismissively, lounging across the nearest chair, his long legs stretched out.

“You can’t stay here.”

“Oh, I believe I can. It’s my place of business after all.” Eliot gestured. “I pay the lease on the building and everything.”

Penny cleared his throat, visibly shifting his shoulders in annoyance. “Your _presence_ is required in Hell. You know, your _actual_ place of business.”

“More like my poorly guarded prison,” Eliot retorted. “If you guys wanted me to stay down there, you should’ve locked the door.”

“I’ll remind you that guarding Hell is _your_ responsibility,” Penny said through gritted teeth.

Eliot sighed, smiling over his frustration. “Feel free to remind _Dad_ that I quit. I’m not _interested_ in playing a part in his little play anymore.”

Penny furrowed his brow, looking more serious. “El, you gotta understand that this is bigger than your temper tantrum, alright? You have a job to do. It’s important.”

Eliot shrugged. “You care so much, _you_ go do it. I’m sure Dad would love that.”

They were frozen like that for a moment, staring at one another.

Eliot knew that his brother, like always, was just doing whatever _Dad_ wanted from him. It was exhausting, really. Eliot was tired of being the fallen son; he was _tired_ of getting orders and following rules. He wanted his life to be his own, and he wasn’t going to let his family force him back to hell.

Eliot took a quick breath. Really, he just wanted Penny gone.

“Let me ask you this. Do you think I’m the Devil because I’m inherently evil, or because dear old Dad decided I was?”

Penny clenched his jaw. “What do you think _happens_ when the Devil leaves hell? The demons, the tortured souls—where do you think they go?”

Eliot leaned forward, pulling up an expression of faux-concern.

“Don’t know. Don’t care. Not my problem.”

Penny stared hard at him, and Eliot stared back, unflinching. Eliot was always good at staring contests with his siblings.

“Whatever. I’ll be back.” Penny started to leave. “You can’t hide out here forever.”

And then he was gone, in a flutter of wings.

“Watch me,” Eliot muttered.

He turned back to Margo and walked over to get his drink. As he took a long sip of the whiskey, he tried to ignore the fact that Penny didn’t answer his question. Penny wouldn’t say whether he thought Eliot was inherently evil.

When he failed to ignore it, he told himself he didn’t care. That worked a little better.

\---

Margo had, reluctantly, looked up David Greyson and found his apartment and his roommate’s name. _Mark Walters._

She did not agree to come with Eliot to investigate. It was probably for the best—Eliot should feel out this man first, before going right into bringing Margo to scare him. Margo could get a lot of someone very quickly, but her methods were more of a last resort deal.

Eliot found the place without much difficulty.

It wasn’t a bad place. Just _exceedingly_ boring. Eliot thought about what little he’d known about the man—the place _almost_ suited him, but it wasn’t right. Like the shallow interpretation of this kind, nervous man might bring up an image of a nondescript apartment building, but Eliot had heard what he wanted.

The man had been a romantic. An idealist. There should’ve been some charm to the space he existed in. Maybe he made the place charming himself.

Eliot tried not to notice how he kept called him _the man_ in his mind, rather than his name. It felt—wrong, almost? It felt _strange_ to refer to him by his name when Eliot had never bothered to ask for it.

He knocked lightly on the door.

It took a moment for a man to come to the door—Eliot assumed he was Mark.

He didn’t wait to be invited before stepping over the threshold.

“Um—” Mark started to protest, but he fell silent when Eliot shot him a look.

Eliot walked into the apartment slowly, deliberately. He glanced around the room, careful to take in any details. There wasn’t much. It was a pretty average living room—a little messy, decorated without care. The couch clashed with the chair. The coffee table had circular stains where people hadn’t used coasters.

“I’m here to talk about David,” Eliot said slowly, looking at the photos on the wall. It was all very, deeply, heart-breakingly average.

“David?” the guy repeated.

Eliot looked back, shooting the guy an impatient glare. “David.”

“Uh. David’s not here.”

Eliot raised an eyebrow. “I know very well that David isn’t here. I didn’t say I was here to _see_ him. I said I was here to _talk_ about him.”

_Honestly._

“I don’t—” Mark started. “Um. I don’t know when he’ll be back.”

Eliot took a vaguely threatening step towards him, a little pleased when Mark immediately took a step back.

“Like I said. I want to talk _about_ him. To you.” Eliot relaxed back, putting on a friendly smile and leaning away so he was less imposing. “I’m here to see you.”

“You’re here to see me,” Mark echoed.

“That’s right,” Eliot said easily. “I’d like to ask you about David.”

Mark rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t, um. I don’t really know him. He just moved in a week ago.”

_Disappointing._ Well, it couldn’t be an _entire_ waste of time. Eliot had to get something out of this little visit, or he wouldn’t know where else to go.

“Well, do you know any of his friends?” Eliot continued. “A girlfriend, maybe?”

Eliot knew very well he didn’t have a girlfriend, but that wasn’t quite the point.

“Well—um. He moved in because he and his girlfriend had broken up. He was living with her. Before.”

“Do you know her name?”

“Uh—no. Like I said, I mean… I didn’t really know him. Just… He answered my ad on Craigslist.”

“I see. Do you make a habit of living with people you don’t really know?”

Eliot was inching closer slowly. Mark didn’t appear to be quite aware of it. Then again, he didn’t seem particularly _quick_ or _sharp._ Which made Eliot’s work here both easier and more difficult. He wasn’t a complex person, so he wouldn’t be hard to get answers out of, but it was anyone’s guess how useful those answers would be.

“What? I, um…” Mark seemed confused. Poor Mark.

“Let me cut to the chase,” Eliot said. His patience wasn’t stellar already, what with the irritation of Penny’s visit and the… Well. Whatever emotion he was feeling regarding David wasn’t pleasant. “David died last night.”

Mark looked startled for a moment. His mouth dropped open. He closed it again. He frowned. He looked down at the ground.

“What am I gonna—” Mark started.

Eliot raised an eyebrow. If he was being honest, it was _possible_ he was sort of looking for a reason to get angry. “You? That’s who you’re concerned about right now? I just told you that David is dead.”

Mark blinked a few times. He had the decency to look a little embarrassed, but no more upset, really, than if he’d heard that there were going to be traffic delays on his commute.

“Well, I just—” Mark stammered. “I mean, I—it was really hard to find a new roommate.”

_Right._ Well, that did make it a _little_ easier for Eliot. He no longer had to worry about being nice.

He took a sudden step forward. “I’m sure that’s _very_ hard on you,” he said icily. “But I’m actually looking for how I can track down who _killed_ David.”

Mark met his gaze, wide-eyed. “He was killed?”

“Just tell me you know _anyone_ who I could talk to. If you don’t know his ex-girlfriend’s name, do you know a friend’s name? His parents?”

Mark took a step back as Eliot moved forward.

_“Anyone?”_ Eliot hissed.

“Um, I—Well, I guess, his, uh, his therapist, I mean—”

Eliot was not amused by Mark’s difficulty in getting a simple sentence out. It was really quite an inconvenience.

“Give me a _name,”_ Eliot said, sharply. He let his eyes flash red, and Mark stumbled backwards.

\---

There _had_ felt like there was something off with this case. Alice had chided him for continuing to pursue it— _there are plenty of other cases more deserving of our time, Q—_ but Quentin really wanted to see this one through. Maybe it was a little bit because he was the _lead_ on a case for once, and he was frustrated by Alice trying to tell him what to do.

But there also really had felt like there might be more to it than just a mugging gone wrong. After all, they’d found the guy’s ID on him. He’d had a twenty-dollar bill in his pocket. _Maybe_ it was a mugger that panicked and ran, but Quentin felt like it could be more than that.

Besides, even if that was all it was…

Well, Quentin never felt right about the way the cops would gloss over things like this. Alice wanted to let it go because she knew how hard it was to find some random mugger, but…

It just didn’t seem right, to let this guy’s death go without even minimal investigation. At the very least, Quentin could devote a day or two for it. It wasn’t like Quentin was in high demand as a detective. He was usually just Alice’s partner. Alice could do without him while he saw this through.

Quentin just wanted to do the right thing. That was all he ever wanted, really.

So here he was, following an _extremely_ thin lead, hoping that he could find something. Hoping that he could do something to get closer to solving this.

When he got to the apartment, the door was open a crack. He approached it slowly, carefully.

He heard voices inside—some stammering, a voice that sounded afraid. He pushed the door open to see _Eliot Waugh,_ of all people, towering over the guy he assumed was David’s roommate, Mark.

“Um,” he said, but Eliot and Mark didn’t hear it. He was _really_ glad that Alice wasn’t with him to see this, all of a sudden.

He took a breath, stepping into the apartment, trying to seem more confident than he was.

“Hey,” he said, louder. “Step away from him.”

Eliot turned sharply and smiled. “Detective, right on time.”

“Right on t—I’m sorry, what are you _doing_ here? And _step away from him_ ,” Quentin walked over slowly, trying to angle himself so that it would be easier to get between Eliot and Mark.

Eliot immediately put his hands up, less in fear or obedience, more like he was humoring Quentin.

“He just barged in, and I—” Mark started.

“Oh, hardly, you answered the door,” Eliot replied like it was a minor argument. Like Mark didn’t seem terrified of him.

Quentin felt like he was going to get a headache.

\---

“I don’t quite understand why _I’m_ being arrested, though,” Eliot said, frowning a little.

Quentin let out a short half-laugh as his grip on Eliot’s arm tightened just a little. “You’re interfering with a police investigation and I just watched you threaten someone.”

He let go abruptly to open the car door, gesturing to it. Eliot didn’t move.

Quentin tried to stay calm. “Get in the car.”

His voice was not calm.

“Right, you know I can get out of these?” Eliot said.

Quentin furrowed his brow, not quite understanding. “What?”

Eliot handed Quentin’s handcuffs back to him.

Quentin took them, staring. He narrowed his eyes. “How did you do that?”

Eliot sighed. “Come on, we’re wasting time. We should be out there, catching and punishing the murderer. I am _very clearly_ not the murderer.”

“‘We?’” Quentin repeated, raising his eyebrows. “You’re insane. And I don’t think it actually _is_ clear that you’re not the murderer—you haven’t been cleared as a suspect, and frankly, you’re not doing yourself any favors right now. How did you even know to come here?”

“This is terribly inefficient, do you usually run your investigations this way?”

“Do I usually have an obnoxious club owner showing up and inserting himself into the investigation and trying to play cop?” Quentin snapped. “No. No, I don’t. Now get in the car.”

“ _No_ , that’s boring and pointless,” Eliot said, stepping away lightly. “Come on, I’ll help you. You clearly need it, and I do have some extra time.”

Quentin glared. “Oh, I believe you have the time. You’re just a bored rich guy with nothing better to do than pretend he wants to play hero. You know what, Waugh, I don’t know what you think you’re doing, or why you think you could be of any help at all, but it’s _insulting,_ both to me and to the _dead guy_ you seemed to actually care about the other day.”

The words felt a little harsh as they left Quentin’s mouth, but he didn’t have it in him to feel bad about it.

Eliot frowned, looking genuinely puzzled. “I do care. I want to catch his killer.”

Quentin wanted to strangle him. “Then _maybe_ you should stay out of my way.”

“I really could help, though.”

“How could you possibly help?”

“I have a certain skillset,” Eliot said, gesturing vaguely. “A certain persuasiveness, if you will. People have a tendency to tell me things they wouldn’t otherwise volunteer.”

“What, because you threaten them?” Quentin replied, crossing his arms.

“What? No.” Eliot paused. “Well, not _always.”_

“That’s it—I’m done listening to you.”

“Oh, come on,” Eliot said, lowering his voice. His mouth curled up in a smile. He leaned in just a little too close. “What about you? Are you feeling like _sharing_ anything with me?”

Quentin glared, refusing to back away. “Not particularly.”

“Detective Coldwater, tell me—what is it that you truly desire?”

Quentin stared at him. He seemed to be serious. He studied Eliot’s eyes, trying to gauge what was supposed to be happening. What, did Eliot really think he was just hot enough to ask someone anything and they’d just answer him? Was that usually how it worked for ridiculously attractive people?

Not that Quentin thought Eliot was attractive. Not that Quentin thought _anything_ about Eliot. He was just some guy, trying his best right now to make Quentin’s life harder.

“Is this it?” Quentin said flatly. “I’m just supposed to tell you my secrets now?”

Eliot blinked, looking a little surprised. Maybe he did just ask for things and people would volunteer whatever he wanted. Maybe that was how he went through life.

“Oh, _interesting,”_ Eliot said, his voice lowering. “You’re more complicated than you seem.”

_Should Quentin be insulted by that?_

Eliot leaned even closer and Quentin swallowed, trying to not let his breathing catch in his throat. Eliot was looking at him intensely.

“Detective, are you certain you’re not feeling some _need_ to tell me what your greatest want in life is?” Eliot’s voice was quiet, a little raspy.

Quentin felt his face flush. He did not, however, feel an overwhelming urge to tell Eliot _anything._ In fact, he really wanted Eliot to know _absolutely nothing_ about what was going through his mind right then.

“My greatest want right now,” Quentin said tightly, “is for you to get in the car.”

Eliot leaned back abruptly, frowning. “How odd.”

“Really, is that supposed to be hypnosis or something?” Quentin really hoped it wasn’t obvious that he was a little breathless.

Eliot’s look of confusion was masked quickly, back to the semi-conspiratorial look from before.

“Trust me when I tell you it usually works,” Eliot said, with an air of careless confidence. Quentin couldn’t help but feel like Eliot seemed a little shaken underneath it.

“Trust you,” Quentin echoed, unimpressed.

Eliot smiled, catlike. “Regardless, I still insist that you let me help. After all, I did get something out of the roommate. The name of the man’s therapist. We could start there.”

Quentin clenched his jaw.

This was a dumb idea.

“You’re still riding in the back of the car,” he said sharply.

Eliot didn’t seem _remotely_ put off by the idea.

He just said, “Excellent,” and climbed in.


End file.
